


Ten Feet from Hell

by Rat_chan



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Long Dream Sequence?, Wild West AU?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-11 17:17:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15976871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rat_chan/pseuds/Rat_chan
Summary: "Why are we headed to a ghost town in the armpit of the Sierras?"Mac, Jack, Riley, and Bozer head out to the high desert ghost town of Bodie, California on what should be an easy enough mission. Of course, things go crazy.Things were even crazier back in Bodie's boom days, where Mac, Jack, and the team have to deal with murder, assassination, and intrigue...





	1. We've come a Hell of a way to find it

**Author's Note:**

> So, I may have mentioned that all of my current writing is self-indulgence. In the case of this story, it's self-indulgent in setting as well as content. I love Bodie and I had to have the team go there (hence the introductory/exposition chapter being set in the present) and I enjoy wild west AU's, so...
> 
> I think this chapter came out a bit overlong, despite my restraint (this could have been 10,000 words of them exploring the whole town, but I held back) and I hope you'll bear with me. The actual bit of history I paraphrase in this chapter will be important!
> 
> Work title is a reference to miners being said to "work ten feet from Hell". Chapter title is from a quote attributed to Bodie's namesake, W.S. Bodey. "If this is pay dirt at last, we've come a Hell of a way to find it."

There was a soft click from the back seat, swiftly followed by Riley’s voice. “I give up,” she said. “I’m going to puke all over my rig if this keeps up.” Her words were punctuated by the shaking of the vehicle. “Couldn’t they have paved _all_ of the road?”

“Come on now, Riley.” Jack glanced into the rearview mirror as he responded. “That would spoil the authenticity.”

“Parallel ruts from wagon wheels would be authentic, Jack,” Mac argued, tightening his grip on the handle over the door and forcing his eyes away from the passenger window. “Washboards, not so much.” The complete lack of guard rail, however, was sadly historically accurate.

“Will you stop clutching the ‘oh shit handle’ and explain to me again why we’re heading to a ghost town in the armpit of the Sierras?”

“Gladly. If you would stop trying to hit every last bump in the road.”

“Only every third bump.” Jack paused as he laid on the horn, startling a flock of sage grouse from the road. “Now tell me why we’re going to this Brody.”

“It’s Bodie and I don’t really know why, beyond that it’s where our contact insisted on meeting.”

“Maybe because it’s awesome,” Bozer suggested from the back seat. “I wanted to shoot a movie here, you know: ‘Zombie Miners of the Wild West’.”

“That… actually sounds kind of cool.” Riley sounded surprised. “What hap-“ A dip in the road interrupted her. “Happened?”

“No budget.”

“And you couldn’t get a filming permit from the park,” Mac reminded him. “Jack!” His grip tightened and he glared at their driver as the car again bumped perilously close to the edge.

“What? I was avoiding a massive rock.” The Texan actually sounded amused. “And we weren’t anywhere near that close.”

 _Try looking at it from my angle_ … He kept that to himself and instead went back to the more pertinent conversation. “Bodie is probably the right combination of remote location and public space to make our contact comfortable.” Mac breathed more comfortably himself as the road continued onto more level terrain.

“I think this is it, folks,” Jack said as the road started descending into a bowl-like valley. Scattered buildings in various stages of arrested decay and the skeletons of old mining equipment dotted the harsh, rugged landscape. Cloud shadows swept across varied hues of rock, sagebrush, and yellow-blooming rabbitbrush. “Wait…” He braked the car, stopping it in the middle of the road as one shadow passed over them. “Is this place haunted?”

“I can’t believe it took you this long to ask that.” Riley laughed, but did not answer.

“Well, I saw this Weather Channel documentary,” Bozer put in, “about the Bodie Curse.”

“Curse?” There was a honk behind them and Jack reluctantly got the car moving again. “What kind of curse?”

“They say that if you take anything from Bodie, even like broken glass or a rusty nail, you’ll be cursed with bad luck until you bring it back.”

“Boze,” Mac finally interjected as he saw the hands on the steering wheel tighten. “Calling that a documentary is giving it way too much credit.”

“There were interviews and everything, man.”

“Yeah, and it could have been crew members or family and everything they described was just coincidence anyway.” When Jack still did not relax, Mac added, “If you’re so concerned, just don’t take anything. It’s illegal anyway.”

“Curses mean ghosts.” Still, the Texan continued to mumble as they made their dusty, bumpy way to the tiny building in the middle of the road. “I ain’t staying in no haunted town any longer than I have to.”

“Welcome to Bodie State Historic Park!” The voice of a uniformed park employee interrupted the relatively quiet tirade. The woman went on to explain the fees and Mac had to grin and shake his head as the cheerful feminine voice had it’s a predictable effect on Jack.

“Do you take card?” Full Texan swagger mode went into play as the older man held out a Phoenix credit card between two fingers.

There was an affirmative reply and, while they were being rung up, he started looking at the park map Riley had printed out before they left. After he had signed the receipt, he looked up.

“Question.” Mac winced as he watched the “Dalton Charm” give way to an almost leer and the staff’s smile morph into a grimace.

“The remaining brothels all burned down in 1892,” she answered shortly as she taped a copy of their receipt to the inside of the windshield.

“How’d you know what I was going to ask?”

“Because no one asks about ghosts or the roads with that creeper grin on their face,” came Riley’s irritated response from the back seat. To the staff, she added, “I’m sorry about him. And thank you.”

“Well, at least he didn’t call me ‘darling’. Have a wonderful time at Bodie!” They were waved on with another cheerful smile and drove on to the parking lot.

“Please tell me we’re not meeting our guy at the cemetery…” Jack requested as they passed below that site on their way to the modest, pebbly parking area. “Please.”

“We’re not meeting him at the cemetery,” Mac obligingly replied. “We’re meeting him, if you recall, at the county barn.”

“Who can ‘recall’ anything in this place?” The Texan asked as he put the car into park and turned off the engine. He leaned down to get a better look at some towering woodwork out the windshield. “Just think how many restless spirits of the blown up and blown away are haunting the place…”

“Don’t forget pneumonia,” Bozer added.

“And suicide,” Riley offered, equally unhelpfully.

“Guys.” Mac turned and gave them a mock-stern look. “It’s broad daylight. And we’re meeting in a _barn_ ,” he tried to reassure his nervous friend.

“Well, we’re not dawdling and none of you,” Jack pointed at each of them in turn, “are touching _anything_.”

“Not even the bathroom door?” That earned Bozer a dirty look. “Hey man, it was a bumpy road.”

“Any of the rest of you need to see a man about a horse?”

Neither of them bothered responding. Riley was slipping her rig into her backpack and Mac was looking over the park map.

“Looks like the county barn is on Main Street, near some hotel,” he observed while they waited for Bozer at the top of a path that led down to the town.

“Is that it?” Jack pointed to a larger, red-tinged building a little down a dirt road from the connecting path.

“No, that’s the ‘Red Barn’ on Green Street, apparently,” Mac corrected as Bozer rejoined them and they made their way downhill. “The place we want is somewhere around there.” He pointed to a two-story brick building in the middle distance. Between there and the parking lot, the stretches of open landscape were dotted with a thousand things and bits of things that his hands and mind itched to take apart and explore.

“Well maybe that’s where _you_ want to be…” Riley commented, looking at her phone – and incidentally saving artifacts – as they went. “But I want to be right… here.” She stopped in front of the aforementioned Red Barn. “I can access both the park’s free wifi and its secure connection from here.”

“Hold up,” Bozer said, raising his hands in a matching gesture. “This ghost town has free wifi?” He looked severely disappointed.

“Well,” Mac pointed back toward a relatively large house they had already passed, “with no TV or cell service, how else do you expect them to convince staff to stay here?” As he spoke, a partially tacked-up Park Ranger exited and locked the house.

“Hold up.” It was Jack’s turn this time. “You’re telling me that people _live_ here? Like, stay the night?” He shuddered dramatically at the thought. “I thought that ‘Ranger’s Residence’ sign was a joke or something. Hey man,” he spoke to the ranger, “does your insurance cover haunting and possession?”

The peace officer blinked at him bemusedly before replying, “State-issued tasers work on ghosts.” He patted the bright yellow weapon on his left hip.

“Ha, ha. That’s cute, officer.” The ranger just waved a hand as he entered the barn. “Let’s go and get this over with,” the Texan said to the team. “Riley, stay on comms.”

Mac and Riley traded half-grins and eye rolls at the “dad voice” before the three men left her seated on a bench in front of the barn.

“Ooh, that house is haunted for sure,” Bozer commented almost immediately as they passed a Victorian style house, the paleness under the eaves hinting at its former elegance.

“Why is it you came with us, Boze?” Jack asked with a glare.

“Pretty sure Matty thought that with both of us here, Mac’d be less likely to blow up a historical landmark.”

“I’m not going to blow anything up!” Both the other men stared sidelong at the blond man, eyebrows raised. “This place is a tinderbox.” Mac sighed when that comment failed to inspire confidence and changed the subject. “Barn’s this way.” He decided not to mention that the building to their right was a morgue.

“Hey, Mac, what do all those numbers in front of the buildings mean?” Bozer asked, pointing at one.

“Maybe some kind of self-guided tour?”

“Hang on.”

“We’re not ‘hanging on’ in this place!” Jack’s admonishment went ignored as the lab tech followed the sight of a State Park uniform into an open building. The other two waited on the boardwalk outside for a moment.

“Here we go.” Bozer came out shortly with a thin booklet. “If we’re playing tourists, we should look the part.” He opened the page to the building they were currently in front of. “Looks like this was the Miner’s Union Hall – party central for decent folks.” They moved to the next. “This place was most recently a sports club, apparently. And this was a hotel and then a post office and then…” He looked in the window at the bottle and bone littered counter. “…One funky-ass bar.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s staged,” Mac commented as he glanced at the padlocked door to the interesting brick saloon. _Wouldn’t take long to open that…_

“If this is a saloon, where are those badass half-doors?” Jack lost his nervous look only to trade it for one of disappointment.

“It gets below minus twenty here in winter, Jack.” Mac pulled the others along. “The county barn’s right over there.”

“Right next to the murder site!” Bozer added gleefully.

“That ain’t funny, Bozer.” The Texan shot the lab tech a dirty look.

“Nah man, seriously. Some Frenchman named Joseph DeRoche shot this guy Thomas Treloar over the dude’s hottie of a wife and then later, a bunch of vigilantes calling themselves the ‘601’ hung the Frenchman in the exact same spot.” Bozer laughed somewhat maniacally as Jack dashed past the number post in the grass.

“It was cold there, man! Like, creepy ghost cold.” The older man gave a full body shudder in a spot down the road.

“Jack’s actually right…” The lab tech stopped laughing and gave his own little shiver.

“It’s probably just the movement of groundwater,” Mac suggested, eying the nearby culvert. “Or maybe it’s cold from the underlying rock.” He was answered with unconvinced stares. “ _Anyway_ , we’ve got a job to do.” He pointed at the open barn.

“Anything suspicious on the satellite, Riles?” Jack shook off his apprehension and swept a more professional eye over the nearby landscape.

“No movement in the vicinity and infrared’s only picking up one heat signature in the barn.”

“Thanks, Ri. Well, let’s get this over with,” he said the latter to the other two men. They moved cautiously into the shade inside the dilapidated structure, Bozer still holding the open guide booklet.

“Mr. Bianchi?” Mac asked the man waiting inside. As his eyes adjusted, he took in the gift store cowboy hat their contact wore along with a half-nervous, half-fascinated expression that darted back and forth between the three agents and the old carriages in the barn. “We’re from the Phoenix.”

“Mr. MacGyver?” the man asked in an accented voice.

“Yes, that’s me. And this is Jack and Bozer. They’re here to protect you.” Bozer did his best Daniel Craig Bond smolder at that comment. “We were told you have valuable intel for us.”

“You are supposed to give me a sign, so I know you are who you say.”

“Right.” The man clearly loved spy movies as well as westerns. With a small sigh, Mac wet lips dried by the high desert air and whistled, as best he could, the theme from _The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly_.

Their contact finally nodded, apparently satisfied. “Follow me.” They were led outside, across the dusty street and over a grassy area littered with vehicles from two different centuries back to Green Street. “I put the information onto a USB drive, which I hid, just in case.”

 _Not sure about the logic of that…_ Mac kept his doubts to himself as he followed Bianchi’s story and path past another brick structure and a schoolhouse and then further uphill along the deteriorating road. The man, though inexperienced, had been hired as a forensic accountant for the Italian branch of a US bank. Apparently, the bank thought the man’s lack of experience would keep him from finding out about their funding of violent neo-fascist groups throughout Europe.

“I did not know what to do… Until they told us about this seminar in Mammoth Lakes,” Bianchi began the conclusion of his tale. “Everyone knows I love the Westerns, so no one was surprised when I took a little side trip to Bodie.”

“So we were both right, Mac,” Bozer commented. “Remote, public, and awesome.”

“You were very brave to come to us, Mr. Bianchi,” the blond man said, suppressing a smile. “We’ll make sure this information gets to the right people.”

“Thank you,” their contact said as he finally led them off the road between two houses. They startled a bright blue bird off the top of some sort of boiler as they passed it on the way to a leaning, tin-roofed outhouse. “Here we are…” He reached under what was left of the seat to pull out a thumb drive.

“You hid that thing in an old toilet?” Jack frowned at the device and then looked down through the boards, probably looking for signs of recent use.

“Well, it’s not the first place I’d look for anything,” Mac said with a grin. “Or the second…” His grin and voice faded as he noticed another uniformed staff member, standing in the street and apparently looking their way. The woman likely thought they were stealing a little souvenir. _Though what she thinks we’ll take from an outhouse…_ “Hang on.” He started walking back toward the road, moving past Bozer, who had stopped to look at some of the debris littering the ground.

“11 Lincoln 23, 7-9-9,” the staff spoke a couple of call signs into the radio she had taken from her belt. Mac heard a buzzing response at the same time he noticed the woman’s eyes were aimed higher than the outhouse that Jack and Bianchi were just departing. “I got movement up on the Bluff.”

“Guys!” Riley’s voice echoed over the comms at the tail end of the other transmission.

“Jack, get down!” Mac called just before the first shots sounded and the first clouds of dust exploded up near the outhouse. The Texan pulled their contact into the lee of the little building while Mac pulled Bozer behind the nearby house.

“I’ve got two people in a restricted area of the park, less than 75 feet from your location.” Riley informed them.

“Safe to say they’re hostile,” Jack answered peeking around the outhouse and up the slope only to immediately pull back as more shots came down toward them.

“Shots fired! Shots fired!” The park staff shouted into her radio from across the street, behind another house. “On the Bluff above Wood and Green!”

“Why doesn’t she return fire?” Bozer asked Mac as he pressed himself close to the splintery wall of the house they were sheltering behind.

“Because she doesn’t have a gun, Boze. She’s not that kind of ranger.” _And that kind of ranger might not get here in time…_ The blond man looked over to Jack and Bianchi. There was too much open ground between them and the next bit of cover for them to move. Mac risked his own glance up at their enemies. He saw only glints of sunlight reflecting off scopes above a pile of dirt and rock dug from an old mine shaft before further shots sent him back to his cover.

“Tell me you’re thinking of a plan…”

“I’m thinking of a plan...” He looked around at rotting wood, rusting metal, and broken glass before scanning down the road to a couple of innocuous looking wooden structures, one of them labelled “Fire”. _How far?_ He mentally measured the distance from the disguised hose and hydrant to their shelter and then risked another peak uphill to gauge that distance as well. _Maybe a little too far…_ He looked back to the objects littering the ground, gaze skipping past unusable objects and jumping to those that could be used, his mind already shaping them to his purpose. “Bozer,” he said to his friend as he began pulling up a rusty old pipe from where it lay half-buried, “I need you to go over there and connect that fire hose to the hydrant.” He indicated the little structures as he moved and spoke.

“Won’t I get shot at?” The man looked nervous, but even so, he was still bracing himself for a run.

“They won’t be able to see that stretch of road from that angle. You’ll be fine.”

“Okay. Here goes.” Bozer made a hunched over dash to the fire equipment.

Mac used the unearthed pipe like a long arm to reach out and pull the other things he needed from the open area. One shot pinged as it grazed the wheeled framework (old barbeque stand?) and another thumped into the dirt by the hunk of wires as he pulled each one in turn to him.

“Mac! What are you doing?” Jack shouted across the open area to him. “If the ghosts get mad when you take stuff, how pissed do you think they’ll be if you destroy them!?”

“Well, unless _you_ want to be a ghost haunting that outhouse,” Mac called back as he pulled out his Swiss Army knife, opened the wire cutters, and started snipping bits from the wire framework, “you’ll help me. Toss me that strip of old fire hose that’s over there.”

“What—” The Texan’s reply was punctuated by more gunfire. He fired a couple of ineffectual return shots before darting back out to grab the old, dirty strip of once-white material. “What are you going to do with this?” He asked as he tossed it over.

“Not blow up a historical landmark.” The blond man’s incipient smile was stilled as he too had to dodge bullets to grab the bit of hose, which had fallen a little short. After he retrieved it, he switched his pocket knife to first the large blade, to trim the hose, and then the pliers to secure the hose to one end of the pipe with the cut wire. He then used more wire to lash the pipe onto the three-legged metal framework. The end of the pipe with the bit of hose was in line with the leg that was missing its caster while the other end extended out from the opposite rim.

“Mac! I got it.” Bozer came panting back to the house, pulling the new, functional firehose with him. “Good thing there were two of these in there,” he said as he dropped the end. “Both of them screwed together only just reach here.”

“Good work, Boze.” Mac said as he used the last pieces of wire to secure the end of the new hose to the open end of the old. “Now, I need you to go back and stand by to turn on the water.”

The lab tech simply gave him a thumbs up before running back to the hydrant.

“Guys,” Riley’s voice came over the comms again. “The ranger is heading your way.”

“Perfect timing,” Mac answered while he gave each of the wires a last, good tightening. “Now I don’t have to ask Jack to play decoy.”

“It might be better than dying in an outhouse!” Jack complained as he pulled the apparently praying Bianchi closer against the wall of said offensive building.

“Well, you wouldn’t have to worry about ghosts or the curse, then.” The blond man raised his voice as an approaching siren started drowning out his voice.

“I’ll haunt _you_ if that… Is that a water cannon?”

“I hope so. Bozer, get ready!” Mac shouted the latter part to his other friend as the ranger’s vehicle bumped up the road and over the still flat hose. As the cloud of dust from the pickup truck’s passage screened him and the flashing lights and siren drew at least one of their assailant’s fire, he moved his makeshift cannon out. He propped the two remaining casters of the framework on a fallen beam. He sighted, as best he could in the dust cloud, along the pipe and then added another bit of fallen wood between the beam and the casters so that he had the right angle. “Now, Bozer! Full blast!” He gripped both sides of the framework, bracing it as the hose tensed and expanded with water. “Jack! Decoy duty after all!” He called out as the dust settled and the pressurized water took longer than he had planned to clear the dried mud from inside the pipe.

“Got you covered, Hoss!” The other man promptly leaned out from his shelter and fired a few more useless shots. Mac was prevented from thanking him by the awaited blast of water from his cannon. It shot out and hit the pile of dirt and decomposed rock that their assailants were using as cover. He tensed as his device fought his hold, then further as he shifted it slightly and pushed the wheel-less leg into the ground, redirecting the spray until it hit just the where he needed. “Woo!” Jack whooped and came entirely out from cover as the gunmen and their weapons were buried by the shifting dust, rock, and mud.

“Bozer!” Mac found it difficult to speak as he continued to struggle with the water cannon. “Turn off—” He was cut off as some of the wire holding his contraption together gave way and the new firehose came free. He saw it snake in the air briefly before the pressurized water hit him, throwing him hard against the surprisingly sturdy wall of the old house.

“Mac!” Distantly he heard his friends calling his name as the bright, high desert sunlight around him faded to cold black.

\-- -- -- -- --

“Mac!”

MacGyver blinked back to awareness slowly. _What happened?_ He was very cold, his head hurt, and Jack was shaking him much harder than he needed to.

“The snow ain’t no place to take a nap, Hoss.”

 _Snow?_ He pushed against the cold, offending substance and, with his partner’s help, managed to regain his feet. He glanced up and down the white, moonlit expanse of Main Street, then back into the saloon he had just left so precipitously, and finally back to Jack. “What happened?” he asked aloud this time.

“You didn’t listen to me is what happened,” the other man complained as he returned his pistol to the pocket of his rifle coat. “I told you ain’t nobody going to hit the broad side of a barn with a rusty old Colt Navy in their hand and half a pint of whiskey in their belly.”

“And he _didn’t_ hit anybody,” Mac recalled as he dusted snow from his frock coat.

“But, with your help, he _did_ hit the saloon’s best rye, so the barman threw you _both_ out.”

“Just another night in Bodie, then?” The blond would-be lawman smiled at his partner.

“Yeah, and maybe time to call it a night,” the former Texas Ranger grinned back but winced sympathetically as Mac staggered a bit. “You okay to walk?”

“Yeah.” The younger man caught his balance on the saloon’s wall and shook off the last aftereffects of this night’s misadventure. “Let’s go.”

With that, the two men made their way down Bodie’s noisy, bustling streets, dodging the occasional horse-drawn sleigh on their way to their boarding house. Neither of them noticed the dark-clad figure following behind them, boots barely crunching the day-old snow.


	2. Scraps of iron and snow slides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mac and Jack, at the behest of their employer and with the more subtle help of the rest of the team, begin investigating the more than usual unrest in Bodie in April of 1881.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, a disclaimer: representations of actual historical residents of Bodie are fictionalized and not to be taken as true representations of those people.
> 
> Second, sorry for the delay. All that wait and it's not much progress yet. I loathe plot exposition. It's so much work to get just the right amount and deliver it in the right way. That's why I rarely write multi-chapter works. So, it takes me longer to write and I was also starting work on other, less exposition-y bits of writing at the same time.
> 
> Third, the snippet of history present-day Bozer related about the murder and vigilante justice is mentioned here to (only as veeery recent history).
> 
> Fourth, I tried not to break the flow of the story too much by dwelling on it, but I do try to include a sense of the auditory atmosphere of a mining town. Gold and silver ore was processed in stamp mills, which crushed the rock by dropping thousand-pound pieces of steel on the rock, 90 times a minute, 24 hours a day, six days a week. There were nine of these mills in Bodie back in the day and at least two of those had 20 stamps... pounding down 90 times a minute, 24 hours a day, 6 days a week. It was not a quiet place, except on Sunday.
> 
> Finally, the title is a reference to a quote describing the taste of a Bodie saloon's "Lightning Whisky". I also liked the description of it as "a cross 'tween a circular saw and a wildcat" but that, sadly, did not fit well. I do use part of yet another description of that drink in Mac's reaction to it...

Mac was awakened in the gray, predawn hour by a shrill scream coming from the neighboring room. “Jack!” he called, not bothering to pull his trousers on over his long johns before running out into the hall. He found many of the boarding house’s other residents standing curiously before the door to his friend’s room, though none of them seemed keen on helping. Mac pushed passed them, shouting again to his partner, “Jack, are you alright?”

“No.” The response that came through the wooden door was shaky, but audible, even above the constant pounding of the stamp mills. “There’s… there’s something out there.”

“I’m coming in.” The blond man elbowed an inquisitive mill worker further out of the way and tried the doorknob. Locked. “Jack?” There was no sound of movement from inside the room. With a sigh, he pushed his way back to his room and returned to the door with his Sheffield pocket knife. He opened the awl attachment and a quick jiggle in the keyhole had the cheap lock open. “What is it?” he asked as he came in the room.

“Over there.” Jack pointed at the window. Through the flimsy gauze curtains, a shadow, faintly outlined by twilight, could be seen moving outside the bubbled pane of glass. Intermittently, a light tapping and scratching sounded against the glass and the wooden window frame. “I think it’s a ghost…”

“There’s no such thing,” Mac insisted with another sigh as he strode to the window and drew the curtains.

“It’s O’Sullivan!” Shouted a miner from the hallway as the light of his candle faintly illuminated a singed, white figure that floated outside the second story window. “As answered the call of Gabriel’s horn not five days ago!” The man must have meant the miner who had been killed by a premature detonation in the Bodie mine the same day Mac and Jack had arrived in town. Another miner, an Irishman, crossed himself.

Mac shook his head and opened the window, letting in an icy draft and an increased volume of Bodie’s nearly incessant hammering. Closer inspection showed the manifestation to be a ball of snow placed atop old aspen branches adorned with burned, tattered old clothing. The source of the ersatz apparition was revealed by a burst of snorting laughter from below the window. “Mr. Cain?” He looked down to see the young businessman holding the contraption up by a pole.

“Cain?” Jack went to the window and got a good look at his “ghost”. He gave the thing a solid shove, which sent it and their employer tumbling into the snow. “That’s not funny!” He called down to the still laughing prankster. “It’s not funny,” he reiterated to Mac, who had a hand pressed over his mouth to contain his own laughter.

“I think Mr. Cain wants a meeting,” the blond man said when he had regained moderate control. He closed the window and curtain and added, “We should probably get dressed.”

“Oh, I’ll arrange a meeting,” Jack mumbled as he pulled on his shirt and trousers over his long underwear. “Between my fist and Chuckles the Impractical Joker’s smug jaw.” He pushed past the curious neighbors who still crowded his doorway and toward the staircase.

“Have we a man for breakfast?” A mill worker who had just gotten home from a night shift inquired of Jack and the milling throng of boarders.

“Give me a minute!” Jack called as he rushed down the stairs.

“Nobody’s dead,” Mac answered the bemused man before he dashed back into his own room to hastily dress. Then, he hurried downstairs to keep that statement true.

“Honestly, Dalton, you’re as superstitious as a miner.” He heard J.S. Cain’s voice coming from the dining room before he saw the two men. “It was irresistible.”

“Well, Mr. Cain, I’m finding a lot of things mighty irresistible right now, but—”

“Jack,” Mac said warningly as he entered the room. He placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, gently urging him to sit down and not threaten the man who was currently paying their bills. “I’m sure Mr. Cain has a perfectly good reason for waking us.”

“Indeed I do, gentlemen.” Cain sat down, his still somewhat snow-dusted back to the nearest wood-burning stove, and waited for Mac to also take a seat. “I needed a meeting with you both before I head down to Mono Lake to attend to business there.”

“So you thought you’d _barge_ in on us before dawn?” Mac groaned inwardly at Jack’s play on words, a reference to Cain’s lumber barge business.

“That’s a good one, Dalton.” Their employer, however, laughed and clapped the older man on the shoulder. “But, in all seriousness, what do you make of Bodie?”

“It’s a lively enough town,” the Texan replied. “A bit short on feminine company, though.”

“It’s more than a little rough around the edges,” Mac interjected, hoping to keep the conversation on course, “but nothing like the dime novels would have you believe. I have yet to see anyone I’d call a ‘Bad Man from Bodie’.”

“Bad shot from Bodie, maybe.” Jack eyed his partner sidelong, his mouth quirking slightly. “Bad judgement in Bodie, certainly.”

Mac ruefully returned the smile, one hand going to a remaining tender spot on his head. “Nothing, however, Mr. Cain, that seems to need our special attention.”

“If it was as straightforward as a Washoe Pete or any other dime novel villain, a new constable would be sufficient to our needs.” Cain’s expression lost all hint of humor and a crease appeared between his brows. “It’s not any one, concrete thing I can explain – just a slow tide of evil washing this town in a subtle dread… Thomas Treloar’s murder three months ago… The vigilance committee – they say it was only two votes that spared Mrs. Treloar from DeRoche’s fate… Constable Kirgan’s death last month…”

“I thought that was an accident.” Jack was frowning as well now. “I heard his sulky overturned.”

“I know, an older man in a two-wheeled carriage on a bad road in March… But the _timing_ of it. We had only just reinstated him after his temporary demotion.” The young businessman shook his head. “It may not be obvious to an outsider, but the whole _air_ of the town is different. It’s like the whole place has been packed with Giant’s Powder and no one knows when a spark will set it off.”

“Well, our associates may have been in a position to learn more,” Mac said, suppressing a shiver at the other man’s certainty of doom. “We’ll speak with them today.”

“I certainly hope that they have,” Cain said as he rose. “I mean to make something of this town and I can’t do that if it goes to Hell. Gentlemen,” he donned his hat, tipped it, and then took his leave.

“Whew.” Jack ran his fingers down his mouth and chin. “And Cain said _I_ was superstitious. That was a lot of doom and gloom right there.”

“I’ll admit that everything he talked about does just sound like coincidence, but he’s a shrewd man and he knows this town.” Mac shook his head. “We get paid either way – just as long as we work.”

“Well I ain’t working on an empty stomach,” the Texan complained just before their landlady walked into the dining room. “Good morning, Mrs. Wright.” His tone immediately changed and the Dalton Charm was set to “eye twinkle and warm smile”. “Don’t suppose we could trouble you for coffee and breakfast?”

“No trouble at all, Mr. Dalton,” she responded with a beaming smile as she placed a percolator on top of the stove nearest them. “A few wagons have been able to get through this week, so I think you’ll be well pleased with the spread this morning.” Her smile disappeared as she turned to Mac. “Mr. MacGyver,” she intoned with more frost than limned the windows.

“Good morning, Mrs. Wright. You—” The woman was already through the door to the kitchen before the younger man could offer any soothing compliments.

“I don’t think she’s forgiven you for what you did to her egg beater, yet.”

\-- -- -- -- --

A hearty breakfast and a brisk walk along snow-sparkled streets later, found the two would-be detectives in the environs of the stage offices. “Good morning, gentlemen,” Mac said to the men lounging around the stagecoach yard. He spoke somewhat loudly as the yard was nearer to one of the stamp mills than their lodging house was. “I need to have a word with the driver of the Virginia City stage.”

“Webber!” One of the men called, not bothering to move. “Someone here for ya.”

“What do they want with Matty the Hun?” The other man asked, squinting at the two visitors as the morning sun cleared the Bluff and began glinting on the snowy ground. He elicited only a shrug from his comrade and a wince from Jack.

“What?” Matty emerged from the stables holding a whip and looking ready to use it. With a hat and eye patch covering parts of her face and loose clothing topped by a small great coat, only a very few wondered about her true gender. However, her oft times terrifying manner dissuaded even the drunkest man from asking questions. “Dalton.”

“Hello, Matty. Nice to see you, too.” Her uncovered eye bored into Jack as he greeted her somewhat sheepishly. “I know Charley Parkhurst was your hero and all that, but don’t you think the eye patch is a bit much?”

“Oh no.” Her mouth curved into a deadly smile that had the two stage workers suddenly deciding to be busy elsewhere. “It goes perfectly with the nickname you gave me.”

“Honestly, Matty, I didn’t think it would catch on so well… with all of Wells, Fargo and Company… and the Pinkertons…” His smile was more a defensive baring of teeth as he gave a dramatic shrug in her direction. “You have to admit, though. It’s a great name for a whip.”

“Good morning, Matty,” Mac said, trying to redirect her attention. “Nice day for a drive to Virginia City.”

“Save it, Blondie.” She clipped her whip to her belt and leaned back against a crate that was in the yard. “While you two have been playing faro and drinking whiskey on Mr. Cain’s money, some of us have been and still are working.”

“It’s called reconnaissance,” Jack argued. “Cain asked us to get a feel for the town.”

“Is that what you call carousing on Bonanza Street?”

“The red light district is part of the town and those hurdy gurdy girls do hear a lot of talk in the dance halls.”

“There still seems to be a lot of excitement about the Bodie 601,” Mac put in, desperate to ease the tension in the yard.

“The vigilance committee?” Matty’s frown turned to one of puzzlement. “I thought that was yesterday’s news?”

“Apparently a lot of the men are talking big about ‘finally bringing real justice to Bodie’ and ‘running off all the curly wolves’. I’m sure most of it is bluster to impress the girls, but…” He recalled the fervency he had seen in the eyes of one of the men he had personally overheard talking on the matter. It was more than he had seen in the eyes of any Bodieite talking about Sunday services in the Miner’s Union Hall. “It might be more than that.”

“Huh. There’s none of that talk amongst the stage drivers or passengers.” Her scornful look back toward the stables indicated the value she placed on their words. “Gold and speculation, and that’s about it.”

“Any stock in particular?”

“The passengers think they’re whispering about it, but who in a mining town remembers how to whisper, even on a Sunday?” She referred to the one day a week both mines and mills were silent. “Too many of them are buzzing with ‘insider information’ about the Mono Mine and ‘the Bodie vein at last’.”

“The Mono?” Jack asked incredulously. “Last I read, their stock was down to 30 cents a share!” He met his companions’ own incredulous looks with a frown. “Yes, thank you, I do read. And I am trying to store a little nest egg for the future Mrs. Dalton and Jack Junior.”

“They already have my hypothetical sympathy.” Matty reached up and scratched under her eye patch.

“A-ny-way,” Mac interjected, holding in a grin and placing a placating hand on Jack’s shoulder for the second time that morning. “The men from the Mono certainly aren’t drinking or gambling like men digging at the next Mother Lode.”

“I think it’s time one of you finally started looking for work in Bodie.” Her one-eyed gaze sharpened on them once more.

“At the Mono Mine?” Mac sighed. “I think my mining engineering will pass muster… And it’ll give me something to do until we can meet up with Riley and Bozer this evening.”

“Say, Matty,” Jack said to her as she pushed away from her crate. “They say anything else about speculation?” He winked at her.

“No, Jack.” Her visible eye rolled. “The only other remotely interesting talk has been about the late constable.”

“Kirgan?” His conspiratorial smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Cain was going on about him this morning, too.”

“One of the Well, Fargo and Company express drivers mentioned him. Said he’d raced the man once and couldn’t believe that he’d overturned.”

“Mr. Cain couldn’t believe it either,” Mac informed her. “He seemed to think it was important.”

“Well, I’ll keep an ear out for anything else. Now.” Matty adjusted her hat and belt. “Some of us have actual work to do.”

“One more thing, before you go.” Jack stopped her as she started to head back into the stable. “Doesn’t that mess up your depth perception?” He tapped at one of his own eyes, the one that mirrored her patch.

Their meeting ended with Mac and Jack making a hasty retreat from the yard as Matty demonstrated, with her whip, how little her perception was handicapped.

\-- -- -- -- --

The investigation into the Mono Mine yielded very little information of use. All that Mac had gotten out of his little “interview” and tour with the mine manager was a lingering sense of sheer, trembling terror. His steps were still shaky when he got to the east end of Green Street, where his partner waited.

“You okay, Hoss?” Jack asked his friend, gripping a shoulder lightly. He was possibly making sure that Mac had indeed come back out of the mines alive, despite what the undoubted paleness of his complexion might suggest.

“They don’t use cages…” The blond man whispered, fingers clenching and unclenching at the ends of slightly shaking hands.

“What?”

“They don’t use cages on the hoists.” The faintly illuminated black maw of the mine shaft opened again in his memory. “Hundreds of feet straight down and nothing to stop you from falling off the elevator…”

“Oh, that.” Jack shrugged and gave his partner a hearty clap on the shoulder. He started walking and the younger man had no choice but to follow. “I heard only the Champion Mine has those.”

“30 mines operating in Bodie and only one of them uses a safety device that has been around for a decade?”

“Well, from what else I hear, only two of those mines are actually making money now.”

“You seem to hear an awful lot all of the sudden.” Mac gave the older man a sour look, although the effect was somewhat spoiled as his body gave a little shudder as it tried to shake off the last vestiges of fear.

“Nothing like a little Lightning Whisky to make folks talkative.” Jack pulled out a flask and gave it a light shake. Mac promptly reached toward it, received it, opened it, and took a bracing sip.

Only to stop and sputter at the vile assault upon his tongue, throat, and stomach. “Ugh. That tastes like turpentine and pepper sauce.”

“Sounds about right.” The Texan recapped and pocketed the flask. “We’ll have to see if we can get a refill tonight.” They started walking again.

“Well, that’s not our first stop this evening. We need to… What is it?” The blond man queried when he noticed that his companion’s attention was elsewhere.

“I wasn’t sure before, but now I am. We’re being followed.” Jack’s hand went to the pocket of his rifle coat, where he kept his British Bulldog revolver.

“Garrotters?” Mac did not question the other man’s instincts.

“No. It’s not a group out to rob us.” The Texan stopped by the schoolhouse, pretending to admire the fine globe on a desk inside, but really watching the street behind them reflected in the window glass. “It’s one man and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him before.”

“Where?” The younger man looked further down the street in their intended direction. He gave a little shiver and kicked at the snow on the ground as if cold and impatient to be on their way. He noted a donkey, nearly entirely unburdened of its load of firewood, being led by a Chinese man, a group of teenage boys apparently trying to get up their nerve to break a window or a bottle with a slingshot, and a pair of younger children building a rather large snowman on a sleigh as their mothers chatted by the roadside.

“I can’t be sure,” Jack finally answered his question. “I haven’t gotten a good look at him, but I’m pretty sure I’ve seen that combination of black hat, black coat, and Colt Peacemaker more than once before.”

“A Peacemaker?” Mac tugged on his partner’s sleeve to get him moving again.

“No mistaking that long, elegant barrel.”

“Jack, I know you know your guns. I was questioning our stalker’s choice of a single action revolver.”

“Maybe he thinks he’s that good.”

“Or maybe he _is_ that good.” Mac frowned, finally feeling a hint of that unease that plagued their employer. “Jack, I need you to buy a piece of firewood from that man.” He indicated the Chinese man as they approached him.

“What do we need a log for? We’re staying in a perfectly warm boarding house.”

“Just do it. Not a log – a small piece. And take your time haggling on the price.”

“Fine.” The older man grumbled but still he hailed the wood seller and began a gesture-filled bargaining session. While they were thus engaged, Mac stealthily took the end of lead rope the Chinese man had dropped. He quietly lashed it to the snowman-bearing sleigh, tying the donkey to the small vehicle. He moved a discreet distance away and, with a silent apology to the beast of burden, he snatched the slingshot and its pebbly ammunition from a hoodlum and promptly launched a small rock at the donkey’s hindquarters. He tossed the slingshot back to the startled youth and moved back to Jack as the pained animal gave a dismayed bray before taking off up Green Street, towing the sleigh and somehow losing only the head of the snowman.

“Jack, give me the stick!” The Texan immediately tossed his purchase to his partner. Mac caught it and then turned his attention up the road. He spotted the shadowy figure Jack had described and, when the careening donkey and sleigh drew near it, he launched the bit of wood like a javelin at the decapitated snowman. There was a small explosion of snow which covered the man following them. In the ensuing chaos of the gossiping mothers blaming the teenagers, the children crying over their snowman, the Chinese man shouting for his donkey, and some no doubt sticky-fingered derelict “helping” their stalker, Mac and Jack made their hasty way to Main Street.

“You know,” Jack commented as they turned to head north along the wide avenue, “I could have just knocked him out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there was Matty. And who could that man in black with the Colt Peacemaker possibly be? Riley and Bozer will make their 1881 debut in the next chapter, coming soon-ish.
> 
> There were likely anachronisms in the speech at times and there will likely be more. Please be forgiving...
> 
> About the history in this chapter... J.S. Cain was an actual businessman in Bodie. In 1881, he would have been 27 years old. He started in Bodie with that lumber barge business in 1879 and would eventually become the foremost resident of Bodie, which he loved. Some historical accounts depict him as a bit of a practical joker, so I couldn't resist having him prank Jack. Bodie's Constable Kirgan was actually killed in a carriage accident in March of 1881. Charley Parkhurst was a famous stagecoach driver who infamously turned out to be a woman (this was supposedly revealed after her death in 1879). And, because that's the kind of detail-obsessed nerd I am, the info about the mining companies (and even the stock price) are accurate as far as I know.

**Author's Note:**

> I have to say that, regrettably, there is one definite inaccuracy in this chapter. While everything else used to make the water cannon is actually in Bodie where I described it, there is no pipe there. There are bits of old plumbing everywhere around Bodie, just not there. Sorry for taking liberties.
> 
> So, yes. Dream or AU, the Wild West part of this story will continue. And Murdoc fans, I was not baiting and switching with that tag. Trust me.


End file.
